Harry Potter Never Was
by Alitote
Summary: Tonight a new kid showed up. His name's Harry, and he's completely nutters. But he seems nice enough and he says some of the weirdest things (like he calls me Ron "Weasley" instead of Wesley-at one point he seemed to normal out a bit and explained it was because Weasley sounds more magical or something). From what I can tell, he thinks he's a wizard or something... -Ron Wesley 1991
1. A Philosopher Story

They weren't to blame. They couldn't be.

After all, he was the one who attacked poor Dudley, not the other way around.

Of course, most of the people along Privet Drive's normally quiet street who reasoned this to themselves as they watched the car pull up to the house didn't know about the week long time outs in the cupboard under the stairs, or the things said to the boy as he cried when he couldn't sleep because of nightmares about green light or tried to play with his older (and much more obnoxious) brother who instead stuffed his head in the toilet or set his mates on him instead.

No, all the residents of Privet Drive knew was that poor Dudley Dursley had been fast asleep like a good boy one night while the family had been on holiday and his eleven year old brother had come up behind him in the night and attacked him, squealing "Piggy! Piggy!" The poor thing had now gone through several procedures to try and restore his backside to what it was before it resembled a gutted pig at a slaughterhouse.

All because of that horrid little boy Harry Dursley. He was to blame, for everything. The Dursleys were good people otherwise, right?

The rented car pulling up to Number 4 Privet Drive was sleek and black, unmarked but many could tell where it was headed when the large man that climbed from the drivers seat was seen to be wearing a white uniform.

The man in question, Rubin Harris, was something of a giant, with a mane of hair and a bushy beard. He liked to think this rugged look and his large physique gave an impression of being a person not to be trifled with, and in many respects he was right-especially among some of the edgier patients. He was an orderly at Horton Psychiatric Hospital, and being a large and imposing looking man came in handy many a time when he was on the job.

That being said, it wasn't all fist fight's and macho stare downs. Harris liked to work mainly in the pediatric ward of the hospital (a small ward, thankfully), where his main job was to keep the kids happy in the recreation room and not let them get into any trouble. Harris considered himself great with kids, always happy to play along in their games as he worked or suggest an idea here or there of what to play when the kids grew bored. He'd been studying to become a fully licensed doctor earlier in his career, but somehow he got distracted. He ended up spending more time with the kids at Horton's instead of studying in the classroom (he didn't really mind though, this meant he could do something he'd grown to love).

It was because he was so great with kids, Harris suspected, that he'd been asked to pick up this newest patient.

Harry Dursley had just turned eleven when he'd attacked his older brother Dudley in the night while they were on holiday at the beach. Since then he'd seemed to have suffered a complete break with reality and the family (and their therapist) felt he wasn't stable enough to be in the outside world anymore. The poor kid had been in and out of his primary school's counselor office for odd pictures and stories he'd turn in for school work. And several notes home from teachers had pointed out the disturbing and other worldly fantasies he'd describe in class that set the other students at ill-ease and generally disrupted the classroom. Harris had read that Harry's mother's side of the family had a history of mental problems, although neither Petunia Dursley or her sister Lily had been afflicted. Harris suspected maybe these mental problems popped up once a couple generations, or maybe something else had been going on here entirely. The notes home had also repeatedly pointed out how thin Harry had been and asking whether he had any proper fitting clothes to wear.

As Harris approached the door he remembered seeing a few reports from the school nurses of how Harry would constantly come in with nosebleeds or nasty bruises, usually appearing after he'd been seen playing with his brother Dudley and his friends. Harris pitied the kid, thinking it couldn't have been easy for him before the initial attack on his brother that marked his complete break with reality.

Petunia Dursley opened the door before Rubin could even knock, looking pale and grim as she led him towards the sitting room where the rest of the family had been seated.

Petunia was a thin and sallow looking woman, with a long neck and narrowed eyes that seemed to analyze everything. Harris saw her frown at him when she thought he couldn't see and suspected it was because of his unkempt appearance-alot of mothers and grannies frowned at him when they saw but the kids said he looked cool, so he generally disregarded what any stuffy old bird had to say.

Her husband, Vernon, was a large man width wise, larger than Harris was by far, and his face appeared squashed like a pug or a pit bull. Some mean looking dog, Harris reasoned, because he looked ready to bite anyone's head off should they stray to close. He watched Harris enter the room with a scowl on his face before quickly looking back to his youngest son, as though Harry might make a leap at him if he took his gaze away for to long.

Dudley was a miniature replica of his father, except his face seemed much rounder and he lay on his stomach on the floor. Through his clothes you could see padding reaching down to his backside and he winced from time to time like he was in pain. He watched Harris enter as well, eyes growing at his size and appearance before looking over to his brother, as though he wondered how bad this tiny thing in a to large gray t-shirt could be to warrant such a large man coming to take him away.

Harry didn't seem to be aware of Harris' arrival, and when he looked up at the man he smiled cheerfully before looking away, staring off into space with an empty yet happy expression.

"Harry come on, get your things." Petunia ordered but Harry didn't respond. His mother grew visibly frustrated as she tried again to get his attention and failed.

"I've got this miss," Harris said gently, brushing past the bean pole of a woman and kneeling before the small child, gently reaching out to grasp his upper arm. Harry jumped in surprise, looking up at Harris curiously as though he was seeing him for the first time.

"Hey'a Harry," Harris said cheerfully, "It's time to go with me alright? Grab yer things fer me an' we'll be off."

"Where are we going?" Harry frowned and behind Harris he heard Petunia scoff in annoyance, muttering about how she'd already told the boy several times where he was headed.

"Horton's, it's a nice place don' worry 'bout it." Harris said, "An' the quicker you come with me, the sooner ye can meet the other kids there."

Harry nodded, standing up and waiting for Harris to lead the way. Harris smiled, plucking up Harry's rucksack and looking around to the rest of the family before leading the small boy out the door and towards the waiting car.

"Don' worry about him," Harris said to Petunia Dursley as she followed them to the door, "We'll get 'im right as rain in no time at all, you'll see."

"I very much doubt that." The woman said coldly before slamming the door closed and locking it with a click of the tumblers.

* * *

><p>Horton's Psychiatric Hospital was situated in a large and old building in Scotland. It was surrounded by forests and a lake, sitting on a large rocky hill and appearing rather eerie in the fog as the orange lights glowed through it's windows. The building and it's surrounding land had once been a convent, and before that a castle for some lord or duke (Harris hadn't really been paying attention when Luther Matthews had been going on and on about the hospital during Harris' orientation).<p>

The point was, Horton's was a rather imposing sight at first glance. It was a fitting setting for a mental hospital in Harris' opinion. It was dark, old, and creepy at night. If you listened closely you could often hear a wolf or two howling when the moon was full, and the train station that was a bit farther down the road from Horton's could make you nostalgic as you listened to the train's blow their whistles.

Harry and Harris had traveled by train actually, stopping at King's Cross Station and sitting together in a compartment Harris had paid to be kept to themselves, passing the time by watching the scenery outside rush by. Harry hadn't said much as they traveled though, preferring to watch the passing trees or watch the clouds above them. As it grew dark he looked to inside the train, playing with the arm rests that folded up back into the seats or tracing his fingers up the pattern of the upholstery.

"There's a frog in here." He muttered at one point as Harris paid for lunch as a trolley passed by, pushed by an older woman who smiled cheerily at the boy when she stopped at their door.

Harris looked up from his sandwich of Corned Beef and frowned, "What?"

Harry was looking at the floor, then slowly his head traveled to look up the wall of the compartment before resting at the window, "Rotten luck... he got away."

He didn't say anything after that. Just enjoyed the chocolate bar Harris had bought him for a dessert.

After arriving at the station Harris hurried Harry off the train and towards his own car, which had been parked in the station's parking lot since this morning. Harry sat in the back, watching out the window as they drove in the dusk light then sighing in awe as Horton's came into view. Harris allowed himself a small chuckle, finding the reaction somewhat memorable-it had been his own the first time he drove up to the hospital.

As they drove up the path towards the gate Harry did ask one odd question though.

"Is that it Hagrid?"

Harris frowned, looking into his mirror at the boy.

"I'm sorry?"

"Is that the school Hagrid? Are we here?"

"Hagrid?"

Harry finally looked back at him, fixing his eyes on Harris' in the mirror, "The school. The one you brought me to."

Harris was silent a moment, more confused than anything. Then it dawned on him, this must be the boy's delusions talking.

"Yeah," He finally said, "It is."

Harry smiled, muttering under his breath, "Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy warty Hogwarts..."

* * *

><p>Doctors Smith and McGonagall were waiting by the front door when Harris pulled up in his old and rather beaten looking car. Smith had his ever present scowl plastered across his pale face, which was framed by his slippery looking black hair. Beside him, McGonagall watched the car approach with a bitter more of a regretful expression.<p>

Harris pulled up a foot before the doctors, shutting the car off and climbing out.

"Good the whole trip," He reported with a grin, "Nice lad, 'e is."

"Nice or not, he's still to be considered dangerous Rubin." Doctor Smith snapped.

"Oh hush Sean," McGonagall huffed, "Don't give the boy a bad impression of the people here before he even makes it in the door."

Smith rolled his eyes, storming forward to watch as Harry climbed out the passenger door of the car, clutching to his small (and rather light) rucksack as Harris led him towards the front doors.

"Hello Harry." McGonagall smiled as the small boy approached, "This way if you please."

Quietly, Harry was led in the dark oak doors of Horton's, a hospital for the mentally ill.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Dursley, I hope you don't see this trip as a vacation or some new chance for trouble." Dr. Smith had begun to drawl when Harry interrupted.<p>

"Potter."

"What?"

"My name. It's Harry Potter."

That caused the surrounding adults to pause a moment, frowning at the boy as though he'd done something wrong when really they were just confused.

McGonagall remembered running across the name "Potter" in a file she'd read about the boy, but it took her another few moments to remember it was the last name of his deceased aunt and uncle-when Harry had been a year old he'd been involved in a car crash that had claimed the lives of his relatives and left him with a jagged scar across his temple. Why he'd chosen to refer to himself with their last name though, was beyond the woman.

"Humor him Smith." She hissed, turning quickly to Harry and with a smile continued to lead him down the hall.

"Of course, sorry dear."

The walk consisted of several dark and rather cold halls, a number of stairs, and finally McGonagall stopped before the door leading to a tower.

"This is the pediatric ward," She explained kindly to Harry, "I imagine you're exhausted with how late it is, so we'll do the official introductions and such tomorrow. For now, enjoy the warm bed." With that she pressed her finger to the call button beside the door and with a loud _Ka-Thunk!_ the door was unlocked.

Harris followed close behind, Smith sighing as he peeled off to check in on a few of the other patients in the common room of the ward. His first stop was a pale blonde boy, who sat in a large green chair by the fire watching the other children with a cold look to his face.

A fiery redheaded boy looked up the moment he heard the loud lock of the door and watched beside his older brother as his doctor and Harris lead Harry past, towards the stairs where a newly vacated room waited. He turned to his brother, who looked up from his 3D puzzle when he touched his knee. The older boy nodded, as if prompting the younger to go on and that's what the boy did, following after his doctor and Harris.

Along the way he passed a girl with a mane of brown hair and a large book on castles. She looked up a moment as he accidentally brushed past but regarded it as nothing and quickly returned to her book.

The redhead turned down the hall in time to see McGonagall open the room door for Harry and quickly he scurried down to watch from the door window as a rucksack was tossed onto the desk and Harry sat on the bed. Harris held a pair of newly washed pajamas in his arms, waiting patiently as McGonagall rolled out her customary welcome wagon (_"Don't try any funny business here, we are a no-nonsense institution and will nip whatever tom-foolery arises in the bud." _Or what he'd heard after arriving, _"We told your brother the same thing: first sign of trouble and it'll be Andrews for you. You can ask him, we appreciate a little good humor here or there but anything beyond that is both inappropriate and intolerable. We may have two Wesley's here now, but we will not have twice the trouble."_).

He was quick to duck around the corner as McGonagall turned to go, watching silently as she waited by the door for Harris to walk out, bidding Harry goodnight and then she locked the door.

"Really Rubin, he's not mentally handicapped." He heard the doctor hiss as they made their way down the hall, "You didn't have to explain _pajamas_ to him."

"Sorry Doctor," Harris sighed, "Just any new kid here I see as the new kid in the family. Can't help meself sometimes, you know?"

"Unfortunately, I do."

The boy waited a bit longer, counting to fifty in his head, then he scurried to Harry's door and tapped softly on the glass. Harry's head snapped up and at the boy's beckoning he rose from the bed and walked to the door. The boy grinned from his side, then with practiced precision slipped a couple of hairpins into the lock on Harry's door. Within minutes the door had opened and the boy had slipped inside.

"Hi there." He said, grinning a bit awkwardly.

"Hi."

"Ron, Ron Wesley." Ron said, holding a hand out to Harry. Harry stared at the hand a moment, as though it were a foreign object to him before gripping it with his own.

"Harry Potter."

* * *

><p><em>Dear Journal<em>

_Tonight a new kid showed up. His name's Harry, and he's _completely_ nutters. But he seems nice enough and he says some of the weirdest things (like he calls me Ron "_Weasley_" instead of Wesley-at one point he seemed to normal out a bit and explained it was because Weasley sounds more magical or something). Most of the time he's off in this other world or something (looks a bit like George does so I assume Harry's in some other world at least) and I had to just play along to what he was saying because usually he didn't understand how _I_ didn't understand. From what I can tell, he thinks he's a wizard or something and that he's at a school for wizards (I wish!)._

_I like him, he's fun (more so than a lot of the guys around here at least-especially that know-it all Granger!)._

_-Ron Wesley, _September 2nd, 1991. Monday, 9:00 PM.__


	2. P is for Potter, W for Weasley

The next morning seemed to come to early for Dr. McGonagall. She rose from her bed with a groan as her alarm clock screamed into the morning air. With a forced slam she silenced it and lie in bed a few moments to steal a little more time in bed and _not_ out there working. Not out among the schizophrenics, the sociopaths, or the depressed. Not having to watch as people deteriorated before her aged eyes from salvageable to terminal.

When she'd first joined the staff of Horton's in 1956, she'd held hope for a lot of the children put into her care. But as time wore on, so did those children. And so did McGonagall's hopes that any one could really be cured. The pediatric ward's doctor felt her heart break piece by piece as she watched new children being admitted to her ward. Last night, she met a boy who believed he was the child of his dead uncle and aunt, and a wizard. When she'd snuck back to his room to check on the poor thing, she found Mr. Ron Wesley inside the room, talking animatedly with the boy. They both seemed like any other _ordinary_ child, until you saw where they were and listened to the things Harry had to say.

She'd watched the two for a bit, partly out of curiosity and partly because she was waiting for a moment to burst in there and send Mr. Wesley to bed.

But she never did, instead she smirked as Ron seemed to begin explaining things with hand motions. A large grin had appeared on his face, one she hadn't seen since he'd arrived here a few weeks ago following a rather disturbing suicide attempt. Since his admittance to Horton's, she'd never seen so much as a twinkle in his eye.

Yet there he was, grinning and laughing as he talked to a boy who supposedly couldn't hold a conversation with anyone.

Realizing she was beginning to doze, Dr. McGonagall rose from her warm sheets and blankets and headed for the bathroom. Today was destined to be as long and grueling as the one before.

* * *

><p>When Harry had woken up that morning Harris had been there to escort him to breakfast in the large cafeteria (the castle's dining hall). Inside had been four long tables for the patients, with the staff table sitting beyond that already filling up with doctors and nurses. In their middle sat an old man with a long white beard talking to Dr. McGonagall and they were both grinning.<p>

"Harry!" Ron called, wiping his mouth of toast crumbs as he hoped up to meet his new friend, "Come sit with us, we have plenty of room."

Harry looked behind his friend at "us", and found them to mostly be teenagers and children like him. With a grin, he nodded and he and Ron thanked Harris before hurrying to the table.

"Harry, this is my brother George." Ron said, gesturing to the teenager sitting next to him, "I told you about him last night."

"Hi." Harry grinned and George, mouth full with cereal, nodded to him. Beside him sat an empty chair, and yet the place had been set and the plate heaped with untouched food.

"This is Dean," Ron said, gesturing to a slim boy with dark hair and dark skin.

"Hello." Dean smiled.

"Hey." Harry nodded back.

"And this is Seamus." Ron said, and the boy sitting beside Dean held out his hand for a shake.

"Glad to meet ya." Seamus grinned.

"Likewise." Harry agreed.

As the five began to chat and eat breakfast, another boy approached the table with a round face and an anxious expression. He stopped before them and grinned with a shy wave and sat down.

"Hi Neville." Ron said, "Harry, this is Neville. He's not actually a patient here but his grandmother works for this charity that works with Horton's."

"She's stuck in another boring meeting." Neville groaned, stealing a piece of toast and began to nibble at the corner.

"She's always stuck in meetings," Ron said, "So Neville is here alot."

"Neville don't you have school?" George asked, throwing an orange to the boy. He fumbled the catch and blushed when the fruit landed on the floor.

"Home-schooled." He stated before diving under the table to retrieve the orange.

Ron looked to Harry and shrugged, the boys sharing a grin before Neville reappeared holding the orange in his hands.

"So you're new?" He asked Harry.

"Yeah, my cousin grew a pig tail and so Hagrid brought me here." Harry said without missing a beat. The surrounding boys stared a moment at him before Ron said rather hurriedly,

"He's here to learn to be a wizard."

"Right..." Neville nodded, catching the serious look in Ron's eyes despite his smile, "Good luck with that Harry."

"Well isn't that why we're all here?"

"Course," George grinned, "Fred and I plan to get our degrees in voodoo hexes and potions." He grunted a second later, receiving an elbow to his gut by his brother, "Dammit Ron..." He wheezed.

"Well anyway," Ron continued quickly, "Harry, meet everybody, everybody meet Harry. Now he's one of us and we're one of him... and all that other weird stuff you read in the Three Musketeers I think."

Dean and Seamus snorted while Neville grinned as he peeled the orange. George soon recovered the air supply needed for his lungs to work and swatted Ron on the back of the head in revenge before ladling gravy onto the biscuits of the empty plate which still sat untouched.

All in all, it was a good breakfast in Harry's opinion.

* * *

><p>Soon after breakfast had finished the five had returned to the recreational room of the pediatric ward. Seamus and Dean had disappeared to talk to a group of girls visiting their sister and George had retreated to a chair in the corner of the room with his 3D puzzle. He muttered here and there, turning his head as if to talk to someone even though no one appeared.<p>

Ron showed Harry around, racing him up and down the halls laughing loudly enough to annoy several patients still in their rooms.

"Ah, there you are!" McGonagall cried when she turned the corner in time to nearly be hit by the racing boys, "Harry I've been looking for you."

"Why professor?"

McGonagall blinked once or twice before continuing, "We have a session and I'd like to get it started. This way to my office please, good day Mr. Wesley."

"Bye Ron."

Dr. McGonagall's office was located outside the pediatric ward's tower and in the first floor of another tower. She turned the key to her office and let Harry enter first, pointing to a large chair on the other side of her desk for him to sit in as she opened a file cabinet and extracted a slim manila file folder. Grabbing her notebook from her bookshelf, she sat down and sighed.

"Now then, Mr. ... _Potter,"_ She began, "I noticed Mr. Wesley snuck into your room last night."

"Weasley."

"Excuse me?"

"Professor, his name is Ron Weasley. You're saying it wrong."

McGonagall was silent a moment or two, then she nodded, "Of course, my mistake." She quickly scribbled something down in her notebook then turned back to Harry, "Now Harry, how are you liking Horton's so far now that you've been here longer than a few minutes?"

"I like Hogwarts..." Harry nodded, "It's so... magical." He grinned and McGonagall continued to scribble in her notebook, "Ron's been really nice, we talked for hours last night."

"Really, what about?"

"Well..."

* * *

><p><em>The two shook hands then broke the embrace. Harry stepped back, leaning against the foot frame of the bed as Ron nodded a bit awkwardly.<em>

_"What are you in for?" Ron asked._

_"Performing magic."_

_Ron frowned, "Magic?"_

_"I gave my cousin a pig's tail."_

_"Ah..." Ron nodded, "Must not have liked it I assume?"_

_"I thought it suited him." Harry muttered, his face growing dark. Ron nodded, leaning a little heavier against the door as he looked around the standard room for a patient._

_"So... I'm assuming you don't really like him?"_

_"He's mean... my aunt and uncle clearly favor him." Harry said, turning to go and sit on the foot of the bed, scooting back so he could lean against the wall, "Always gets the toys, the birthday and Christmas presents-he even gets the better room! I have the smallest one at home."_

_Ron nodded, "If you don't mind my asking, _why_ are you living with them? What happened to your parents?"_

_"They died." Harry said simply, no trace of emotion in his face or voice, "When I was a year old Lord Voldemort killed them."_

_"Voldemort?"_

_"The Dark Wizard. He died that night too I think, he was after me and they got in the way."_

_Ron nodded, clearly realizing he couldn't believe most of what Harry said. What was delusion and what was fact? Maybe with time he could figure it out, but for now..._

_"So are you here to hide from him? Voldemort I mean."_

_"I'm here to learn magic of course, same as you." Harry grinned, as though Ron had told an amusing joke, "I bet we'll be great wizards."_

_"Sure." Ron nodded, unable to think of anything else to say._

* * *

><p>"I see," McGonagall said, still scribbling in her notebook, "Harry I want you to tell me a little bit more about Voldemort, the wizard who killed your parents, correct?"<p>

"Yes."

"What else can you tell me about him? He died, you said?"

"I don't know why or how," Harry frowned, "He died when he killed my parents and destroyed our house. I've been living with my aunt and uncle ever since."

"And why was Voldemort there in the first place?"

"To kill me."

McGonagall nodded, scribbling quickly before flipping through the slim file labeled with Harry's name.

"It says here you often went to the nurse's office for bloody noses and suspicious bruises." McGonagall said, as she read over copies of notes and letters sent home, "Were you often the target of your brother-I mean, cousin?"

"Yeah. And his friends." Harry nodded, "Once though, I was running from them like normal and, out of nowhere, this _breeze_ came and blew me up to the roof! It was weird!" He'd grown a large grin, clearly excited by the idea of the event, "Got away from Dudley and I got to see this sea of Frisbees that had flown up there."

McGonagall smiled in amusement, "Very nice dear." She turned back to the file, frowning, "Apparently your teachers didn't find the idea of magic and wizards all that amusing though, did they?"

"No... Muggles never understand."

"Muggles?"

"Non-magic folk." Harry said, "That's what Hagrid told me."

Hagrid... the name sounded familiar... Ah! Harris, that's right, McGonagall remembered, he'd called Harris _Hagrid_. Wonder why..._  
><em>

"Did he now?" McGonagall smiled, "He seems to know a lot, doesn't he?"

"Well he is the one that brought me here, rescued me from the Muggle World." Harry smiled sheepishly, "I really hated it there."

To McGonagall, it sounded like a way of saying he hated reality. And as she made a note of it in her book, she realized she hated reality too, dream worlds always seemed much better.

But then, why else would you call it a Dream?

* * *

><p>"Well Harry, I think our first little chat together went down splendidly," McGonagall smiled after she'd exhausted every question she had for the boy, who had slowly grown restless and begun to fidget in his seat, "I think we're good till next week."<p>

"Great." Harry smiled, jumping to his feet, "Can I go now?"

"Ah, first there are a few more people you should talk to dear." McGonagall said, "Doctor Smith is the expert on medications here, I think it would be a good idea to have a chat with him."

"Why?"

"Just so we know for sure what would be good for you."

"Fine..." Harry sighed, deflating a bit.

"And then there's Doctor Quirrell, he's an expert on hallucinations, delusions, he's also someone I collaborate with on a number of cases like yours Harry. I think a few sessions with him would be a good idea as we get started."

"Fine..."

McGonagall smiled, "Don't look so depressed, it's just a few quick chats."

"It seems that's all I ever do professor." Harry sighed, but followed her out the door nonetheless, his file and her notes in her arms.

Ron was waiting by the door, sitting on the ground playing with a small thread he'd pulled from his t-shirt. As Harry and Dr. McGonagall left her office he popped up to follow alongside his new friend.

"Hey there Harry." He grinned in greeting, Harry smiled back before letting out a groan.

"I have to talk to _more_ professors..." He whined.

"Oh I know, Smith is the worst by far-he's mean." Ron said.

"Don't go spreading rumors Wesley." McGonagall chided.

"Weasley professor." Harry corrected.

Ron grinned, "Weasley is a better name than Wesley-sounds cooler. Anyway, Quirrell is okay I guess, bit weird honestly. I talked to him for like, ten minutes and he let me go. He's more interested in George anyway, more up his alley than mine. The one that took forever with me was Smith. And he's not a very nice man usually-unless you're Drake Matthews."

"The blonde kid who snarls at everyone right?"

"Yeah," Ron said, "No one likes him."

McGonagall frowned at the boys, leading them down towards the ground floor and further towards what was once the cellar and dungeons of the large castle. It had since been converted into storage and a number of offices that hadn't fit or been up to snuff originally above ground. In the dungeons, Doctor Sean Smith had the room he needed to store the different medications they had in bulk and dispense it easily. There was no way for patients to sneak into the stone walled and heavily locked down adjoining room to the "Medications Master"'s office. Many had tried, and Smith took pleasure in thwarting each and every one of them.

Smith's office was very clean and orderly, his desk covered with nothing but his computer and a number of notes he'd taped along the desk under his mouse and keyboard. He was currently writing something into a file and looked up as the three entered. He frowned upon seeing Harry and Ron, looking to his fellow doctor for an explanation. Like his office, he was very neat and orderly, a crisp white doctors coat covering a black turtle neck and pressed black pants. His hair, constantly oily due to a medical condition but thankfully dark so it was hard to tell unless you really looked at it, reached to touch mid-way down his neck. His eyes were like glass black beads, hard and rather unforgiving looking. A hooked nose completed the picture, giving him a rather imposing and stern face.

"This is Harry," She said, handing him Harry's file, "I was hoping you could look over this and help me prescribe the right form of medication for him."

Wordlessly, Smith took the file and quickly scanned the notes over. He frowned, his beady black eyes zeroing in on the notes talking about hallucinations and deep delusions. He looked up at Harry, as though considering his opinion of him based on what he'd read. Harry stared complacently back, face devoid of emotion as Ron fidgeted beside him, clearly uncomfortable in the room of a doctor he really didn't prefer all that much.

"I think I might have what we need Minerva." Smith said, handing the file back to her, "I'd like you to make a copy of that and keep me updated though, just so I know if anything should happen to change."

"Of course Sean," McGonagall nodded, "I appreciate this."

"You appreciate everything I do," Smith said rather offhandedly, returning to his own notebook, "No go on, stop distracting me."

"Oh Sean..." McGonagall sighed dryly, "I'll talk to you again later."

"Can't wait." Smith said flatly, not looking up to bid them goodbye and instead listened for the door to click as it closed behind them.

McGonagall walked briskly up the steps and towards the large stair case of the main hall. Ron and Harry had to jog to keep up with her, despite her age McGonagall walked briskly until they reached the third floor where she escorted them to an office labelled Doctor Quirrell. Inside there was a what could be considered the foil to Dr. Smith's office. Papers cluttered the desk, the file cabinets, and the window sill. Folders were stacked into small towers around the floor and papers with threads pinned between them papered all four walls and even the inside of the door.

Quirrell sat at the desk highlighting furiously at a paper he'd printed out before leaping up to pin it on the wall, beginning to connect it with the red yarn threads when he noticed his visitors.

"Ah, D-Doctor!" He pipped up in a squeaky voice, "Sorry, I didn't s-s-see you there!"

"Quite alright Quirrell." McGonagall smiled before gesturing to Harry, "I'd like you to meet Harry, one of my newest patients."

"Ah, h-h-h-hello there, Harry." Quirrell stuttered, walking forward to shake the boy's hand. He nodded to Ron, who gave a single wave back before stepping back towards the door.

"I was hoping you could work a little with Harry Quirrell?" McGonagall said, handing the man Harry's folder and he began to flip through it.

"Oh, y-y-yes, yes of course." Quirrell said, eyes growing wide like he was excited as he read, "I'd l-love to M-Minerva." He looked up at Harry, smiling brightly before handing the file back and beckoning Harry forward towards the chair on one side of his desk, "In f-fact, can I borrow him n-now?"

"Sure," McGonagall nodded, turning to Ron, "I think it's time for _our_ session anyway, isn't it?"

Ron sighed, following his doctor out the door like a dog being dragged on a leash.

* * *

><p>"Finally!" Ron groaned, stretching as he picked Harry up from Quirrell's office, "I thought you'd be in there forever!"<p>

"Sorry," Harry shrugged as they began to walk.

"It's not your fault, it's his." Ron said, jerking his thumb towards Quirrell's door, "When he's interested in you he asks alot of questions. George was in there for two hours and when he came out he swore he'd never go back in."

"Has he?"

"Loads of times-against his will. Harris-"

"Hagrid."

"Right, _Hagrid_ has to either force him in there or McGonagall has to bribe him." Ron sighed, looking dark, "I don't blame him either, Quirrell doesn't really have a sense of boundaries in my opinion-he asks alot of questions without alot of tact."

"Like what?"

"Like... well..." Ron blushed a bit, obviously not wanting to repeat questions his brother had been asked, "Hey! Why don't we go outside? There are loads of people you haven't met yet."

"Fine!" Harry grinned, racing alongside Ron to get outside.

* * *

><p>The grounds surrounding the hospital were rather well kept. Patients milled about in groups or alone, some accompanied by an orderly dressed in white scrubs or a doctor carrying a notebook and scribbling in it with a pen.<p>

Ron lead Harry to George, who was sitting on a rock by the lake with a book, talking a bit to a boy with pale hair and a pale face sitting beside him. As the boy's drew closer Harry realized they weren't talking, but arguing. And by the dark look on Ron's face as he watched the boy it could be assumed this was not a new event to take place.

"You're crazy Wesley." The boy said, "There's no one here."

"Go away!" George snapped, springing to his feet, "Fred was sitting there and you know it!"

"There's no Fred here."

"Shutup!" George cried, covering his ears, his book flying into the air and landing close to a mud puddle.

"Hey," Ron cried, running forward and grabbing the book, "George, it's fine. Drake's just being a prick as usual." He reached up to try and pry George's hands away from his ears but George jerked away, shaking his head.

"Leave me alone! Don't touch me!"

The boy, Drake, chuckled, obviously finding alot of entertainment in the show.

"What's the matter Wesley?" He called, still sitting on the rock, "Having issues? Could it be because you know Freddie's de-"

"Shutup!" George screamed, bending forwards like he was going to be sick as Ron tried to make him move away from Drake.

"What's all this then?"

Ron, Drake, and Harry turned to see Harris hurrying towards them, dressed in the large white scrubs of an orderly. He frowned, turning to look at the four boys in turn before stepping towards George and placing his large hands on his arms.

"George," He said sternly, "George look at me." George shook his head and tried to rip himself away but Harris' grip was to strong, "George stop it. I don't want to have to sedate you."

"George..." Ron pleaded, his voice losing fire. Drake sat on the rock still, chuckling lightly as Harry stood back watching.

"Drake," Harris snapped, "Inside. Now."

"Fine," Drake smirked, getting up and walking away, "But only because you asked so nicely."

"Freakin' Drake..." Harris sighed, shaking his head as he began to drag George away from the water and towards a nearby tree, "Jus' sit down there why don'tchu."

George crumpled into a heap, head in knees and still covering his ears with his arms. Ron turned to Harry, who looked between the Wesley boys and Harris, who stood beside George watching with a cold, critical eye. Around them, many people watched in interest, muttering to themselves over what could have happened.

"Drake Matthews." Ron explained, "He's a narcissistic little prat, a real piece of work."

Harry nodded, sitting on the rock that had been fought over so fiercely, "You can just _tell_ he's a Slytherin."

"Definitely." Ron nodded, sitting on the ground and leaning back against the stone, "Everyone hates him-they're usually just nice to him because his dad is on the board of directors."

"Was that the Matthews boy just now?" An older man with whispy white hair and a wrinkled face asked as he approached slowly.

"Bringin' his usual sense of _charm_ and what have yeh." Harris nodded, still watching George as he rocked slowly back and forth, "My life brightened a great deal when they brought tha' piece oh' work in, I tell yah."

"Oh, Harris no need to gripe." The old man said, waving the words away with his hand, "No, just move on-it's how you keep them from holding any power over you."

"Oh I'll move on, I always do." Harris nodded, "Don't know abou' the rest of these patients though..."

"Well, maybe one day he'll get what's coming to him... till then let's just find something more cheery to talk about."

"Well," Ron said, perking up, "This is Harry. He got here last night."

"Ah, Harry," the man cried as though he were greeting an old friend instead of a new face. He hurried forward to shake hands with the boy, "I'm Gary Olliver-that's _two_ L's mind you."

"Hi, Harry Potter." Harry grinned, releasing the old man's hand.

"And what, pray tell, landed you in our humble abode?" The man smiled.

"Gave his brother's backside a pig tail." Ron said, "With _magic_."

"Really," Olliver said, looking impressed, "I always knew it was possible-it just has to be done by the special few."

"It was an accident of course," Harry said quickly, "Then Hagrid came and got me and brought me here."

"So you're a wizard in training!" Olliver cried, "Ah, I should have known! Just look at you, the makings of _greatness!_"

Harry could not help but blush as Harris and Ron began to snigger.

* * *

><p>"Well you've met your therapists, and Drake... sort of... and you know what not to say around my brother..." Ron frowned as he and Harry ate dinner with the others that night, "Should I be telling you anything else?"<p>

"Probably just what to do should I see a dark wizard."

"Ah, right," Ron nodded, screwing up his face as he began to think, "Probably just turn and run like hell, that usually works doesn't it?"

"What works?" A voice asked behind them.

Ron and Harry turned to see a lanky red headed young adult in white scrubs and holding a clipboard. His face was knitted in a frown and framed by horn rimmed glasses which he stared intensely through at the boys.

"Hi Percy." Ron groaned.

"Always a pleasure Ronald." Percy said back, nodding promptly to him, "I see you've made friends with the newest addition to the pediatrics ward."

"Well we are in the same ward..."

"And such a shame too." Percy said, "Anyways, I just wanted to let you know I'm leaving for a few days so I can go pick up Mum and Dad, their car is having trouble again."

"Why do they even have to visit?" Ron asked.

"Because Ron," Percy cried, "It's an important component in _any_ patient's treatment to interact with the people that support them during said treatment!"

"Then why does no one visit Drake Matthews unless it's Christmas or his birthday?" Ron snapped tauntingly, "Or Mr. Olliver? We didn't even visit George all that much till I got landed in here!"

"You can fight with me Ron, or merely accept that you'll be dealing with a skittish sister and a stern mother for a few days." Percy said flatly as he began to leave, "Now, I'm off to do my rounds, enjoy your dinner."

"I can't, now that he's wished it." Ron stated glumly, picking at his beans and rice.

"Percy's your brother?"

"Unfortunately." Ron nodded, "He's studying to become a therapist like my dad, hopes to up there with Sigmund Freud and all them other blokes. For now he's stuck as an orderly-dealing with cleaning up crazy drooling people's messes and forcing pills down their throats."

"He's a git." George added, turning to them from across the table, "Always has been and always will be. You know he keeps telling me to stop living in the past? I have no idea what he means, but then he goes and insults Fred so much Fred has to leave or he might punch his lights out. I wish he would though, just once and Percy may finally shut his gob."

Ron cast Harry a tired look before nodding with a smile to George, "Fred's always been the violent one."

"Usually..." George said, shrugging, "But I have my limits too-remember Fred's face when I tore apart his posters? Or tricked him into that stunt with the cars in that intersection."

Ron suddenly went rather pale, nodding slowly and looking as though he might be sick, "Yeah... I remember..."

George snorted, "I'm still amazed he pulled that off!"

Harry looked around, "Where is Fred anyway?"

George frowned, turning to the empty chair which had a plate full of food set before it, "Must have run to the bathroom-remind me to tell him about Percy when he gets back."

"Sure thing George." Ron said quickly as his brother turned back to whoever he'd been talking to earlier.

"Are you alright?" Harry frowned, watching as Ron pushed his plate away.

"Fine..." Ron snapped.

Harry frowned, and was just about to snap back that Ron didn't have to be so rude when a voice called to him from behind.

"Harry! My boy!"

Harry turned to see Mr. Olliver walking quickly towards him, face beaming. Behind him, seated at the staff table, Dr. McGonagall was watching closely. In Mr. Olliver's hand was a long and thin box. He presented it to the boy with a gleeful look on his face.

"This is for you." He smiled.

Harry took the gift slowly, opening the box and removing a long dark stick of wood.

"A wand..." He breathed, eyes growing wide.

"Every wizard needs one," Olliver said, tapping the end of Harry's wand with his finger, "With this any wizard can do great things, even if it's terrible-terrible, but great."

Harry looked up, eyes wide and sparkling as he smiled.

* * *

><p><em><strong>From the desk of:<strong> Minerva McGonagall_

_**Subject:** Harry Dursley-or as he prefers to be referred to, Harry "Potter"-First session_

_**Notes:** Harry has constructed a complete other reality from the true one. Currently he believes he is a wizard at a school for witches and wizards, that the orderly Rubin Harris is a half-giant named Hagrid, and that many of the doctors here are teachers. I don't for a second doubt this wasn't help when one of the other patients here, Mr. Oliver, gave Harry a "wand" (a length of wood he whittled at in the Shop)._

_Other than living in a world of his own construction, however, I am not led to believe Harry is an immediate danger to anyone or himself. It's possible his brother provoked him into an attack, after all children will do as they will, but the act itself may have been the stresser to lead to Harry's break with reality. This leads me to believe how put-together he was before attacking his brother and will be talking again with his parents not to mention a number of his old teachers._

_-Side note, Harry seems to have made friends with the younger Wesley boy. Keep an eye on them, but don't interfere. This may be a blessing in disguise for poor Wesley._


	3. Trolls will be Trolls

The next few days consisted of mandatory visits to McGonagall's office, bad tasting pills that Harris delivered to his room every morning before breakfast, and the general day to day life of any other Horton's patient. He and Ron took great pleasure in wandering the large castle halls, which despite it's makeover into a mental hospital, still contained several traces of what it formerly was. The hospital chapel had not been touched, and it still contained the large stained glass window that cast multi-colored light patterns across the pews and walls when the sun shown through it. Along the rest of the castle, carvings in the walls and cracks in fixtures and stones spoke of the castle's age. If it weren't for the several signs screwed into the stone and a number of security doors installed just outside several of the more dangerous wards and the infirmary one would think this was still a rich man's house or perhaps the convent it once was.

The library was a room they didn't visit to much however, unless boredom was threatening to claim their very lives or they sought to hide from Quirrell or Smith just a little longer before being dragged to a session. They found George in there once, hiding from the orderlies with his own book clutched to his chest. He violently waved at them to go away and they could hear him snarling that Ron betrayed him when Harris found him a few moments later.

On these few visits to the library Ron and Harry always came across another patient, who was usually holed up in the back corner of the library at a reading table with stacks of books around her.

"That's Hermione Granger," Ron whispered to Harry the first time they saw her, "Nutter that one."

"Why?" Harry whispered back as they watched her through the bookshelves. She sat quietly reading her book, tapping the edge of the table in intervals of three.

"Percy mentioned she got sent her after attacking her mum. Don't know why though..."

"Maybe her mum is a dark wizard?"

"Yeah, maybe." Ron said, shooting Harry an amused grin he didn't see, to busy watching as an orderly marched towards Hermione. He was a large orderly, his white scrubs struggled to contain his gut and the belt around his waist looked ready to snap at any moment. His face was rather blotchy and pitted, his ears sticking out of his head like the extended wings of an owl while three hairs combed back adorned his shiny bald head. He approached Hermione's table and grunted at her, jerking his head towards the door. She stared at him, considering him a minute while biting her lip three separate times and got up to follow him out of the library, carrying three books.

"Oh, that's an orderly to watch out for too by the way," Ron added, "Everyone calls him Troll because he acts like one."

"He doesn't act like one, he _is_ one!" Harry stated, wide-eyed and a touch afraid.

* * *

><p>The Wesley family had several things in common. The first, was that they were entirely made up of redheads with loads of freckles. The second, was that they dressed a bit shabbily but practically. Ron often wore worn out jeans with holes along the legs and pockets (he often asked Harry to hold things for him because he couldn't trust his own pockets) while George stuck either to his threadbare pajama pants or a pair of stained jeans he'd patched over with squares of purple or orange fabric (To his annoyance, Ron still didn't know how he kept doing it since they weren't allowed a needle for the obvious reasons).<p>

When Mr. and Mrs. Wesley arrived with their daughter alongside their son Percy a week after he said he left to get them, Harry and Ron turned to hear a high-pitched squeal emit from Ron's mother before she bustled forward to hug him tightly. Ron spluttered a moment or two, his limbs waving like an octopus as he tried to find a way to free himself that wouldn't injure his mother before his father extracted her from him and then quickly enveloped him in his own hug. Harry giggled, listening to Ron shout he couldn't breathe and plead for his freedom.

"Oh Ron!" Mrs. Wesley cried, "We've missed you!"

"I've only been gone two months!" Ron argued.

"And it's been two months to long!"

"Well... anyway..." Ron looked around, probably hoping to find George to pawn them off on but seeing as he wasn't there instead turned to Harry, "This is Harry, he got here a week ago."

"Well hello dear," Mrs. Weasley smiled at Harry, enveloping him in his own hug which nearly crushed his ribcage before Mr. Wesley bustled everyone over to the couches of the common room.

"Well, Ron," He said as his daughter sat down close to him, "How have the last two months been?" He looked a bit apprehensive as he asked, like he was worried he might be pushing buttons or edging close to a line. But his tone mirrored that of McGonagall when she asked questions, like when she was trying to understand Harry's reasoning behind a "magical term" or why he thought some people were trolls.

"Fine I guess... George is a real treat when he's not freaking out."

"Oh, don't speak about your brother that way." Mrs. Wesley chided, "After all, then he'd be permitted to speak that way about you."

"Where is George anyway?" the youngest Wesley, a small girl with long fiery hair, asked.

"Should be here somewhere," Percy said, getting up from his seat beside Ron, "I'll go find him."

"Be quick about it dear." Mrs. Wesley called, turning back to Ron and Harry, "Well you're stay here so far can't be to bad-you have friends." She gestured to Harry, who had begun looking anywhere but towards the small Wesley girl who watched him with nervous intensity.

"Yeah, Harry's great." Ron grinned, turning to his mother, "He _cast_ a pig tail onto his cousin with _magic_."

"Did he now?" Mr. Wesley frowned, looking Harry over with critical interest.

"Yeah, wizard in training." Ron said, "Show 'em your wand Harry."

Since Mr. Olliver had given it to him, Harry had carried the wand everywhere he went. He usually had it either in his hand or his back pocket. The only time it ever left his person was when he wrapped it carefully in his towel before showering or setting it on his side table before going to sleep. Ron had goaded him into casting spells with it several times, like trying to make plants grow around the grounds or give Drake Matthews his own pigs tail. So far, Harry believed he'd only been able to cast a few charms and hexes (usually when "practicing" on Ron, who would throw himself backwards or forwards in reaction to whatever spell he'd been hit with).

Harry now pulled the long dark piece of wood out, showing it off admiringly as he himself stared at the shiny finish painted across the wood and gripped the handle Mr. Olliver had taken the time to wittle and mold.

"Oh, it's very nice." Mrs. Wesley nodded, smiling, "I do think there's something to be said for a wizard with an excellent wand."

"Ron's gonna be a good wizard too," Harry said, "We practice all the time."

The Wesley girl giggled, covering her mouth as she snorted, but was quickly silenced by a look from her father.

"Ginny!" George cried, entering the common room. Quickly he ran forward and scooped his little sister up in a large hug which swung them around several times. Ginny squealed with laughter, her ten year old face glowing with mirth. Behind them Percy rolled his eyes, looking unamused before he reclaimed his seat beside Ron who scooted several inches away from him in disgust which Percy conveniently didn't notice.

"George dear," Mrs. Wesley smiled, getting up to hug her son as Ginny was released and scurried to sit beside her father once again. George hugged his mother and quickly went to sit down in the large chair between the two couches currently occupied by his family and Harry.

"How are you son?" Mr. Wesley asked, giving him a warm smile.

"Fine," George shrugged, reclining back into the chair, "Fred and I have kept busy most of the time."

At the mention of George's invisible companion the other Wesley's went quiet for a number of seconds before Mr. Wesley nodded, smiling falsely but you'd have to have known him for a long time to know that.

"Very good son, and where is Fred?"

George frowned, looking around, "Perce must have gone and scared him off-he's always threatening him and things like that you know. One of these days Fred's probably gonna snap."

"No he isn't." Percy snapped under his breath before receiving a quick kick to the shins by his mother, who was to busy smiling tightly at George to send him an accompanying scowl.

* * *

><p>The rest of the Wesley's visit was a bit awkward, and it ended once George declared Fred had been on his own for far to long now and was probably doing something fun without him. His parents and brothers had looked on uneasily as George picked himself up from the chair and promptly disappeared through the common room door. His sister watched the door sadly, almost like a puppy that had been left by it's owner...<p>

The Wesley's not required to stay at Horton's soon kissed Percy and Ron on the cheek and hugged them goodbye. Mrs. Wesley promised to send glorious Christmas presents and then they were gone. Ron sat back and sighed, like he'd just completed a rather strenuous task and couldn't believe it was finally over.

"I thought they'd never leave..." He groaned, falling sideways into the cushions of the couch, "It's always a bit awkward, and Ginny usually cries or something-she was probably to busy staring at you though to work the tears up though."

Harry blushed awkwardly, "Was she?" He asked quietly.

"Definitely."

The boys spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the halls, grinning and laughing at one another's jokes as they turned around corners. Harry cast a few more spells, trying to practice, and Ron flopped about whenever one managed to hit him. Harry always grinned at his accomplishments, even when hitting Ron by mistake, and as he helped his friend up from the floor (apologizing profusely) he felt a growing sense of pride.

Around one corner they found the orderly everyone called Troll (whether this was only behind his back or even to his face Harry wasn't sure yet, so he kept quiet), who was meandering around and snarled rather nastily when he saw the two boys without an orderly or a doctor. He was ready to send them back to their tower-not wanting to let children run around unsupervised-when Percy appeared and waved him off.

Percy had an uncharacteristically hard gaze set upon him as he watched Troll disappear, not breaking his gaze on him till the man turned another corner and left. He then promptly turned to Ron and warned him to be careful-the hospital was not a playground. Ron argued back he knew that and there was nothing wrong with wandering down a few halls as long as you got back when you were supposed to. Percy groaned in annoyance, but couldn't thing of anything to snap back so just warned him a second time rather sternly and stormed down the same hall as the Troll.

"Mental, he is!" Ron fumed as they continued walking, "Warnings here and there about not being an idiot, and then when I _do_ get into trouble he makes sure everyone knows he warned me plenty of times! Thank goodness for warning right? Best way to protect yourself is your Percy Weasley!"

"It didn't look like he liked the Troll though, he seemed kind of mad when he saw him talking to us."

"Oh that's because not even Percy is thick enough to think the Troll should be trusted near anyone on his own. He's boasted to me a few times that no one trusts him, so they give him the really crappy work where everyone can see him."

"Why?"

Ron frowned and scratched his head, "I dunno, maybe they can just tell he's creepy? Something must have happened to make people not trust him but it can't have been to serious or else he wouldn't even be here."

As they'd been walking they'd ended up circling back around towards the pediatric ward's tower and now stepped through the door as it unlocked for them. They spied Dean and Seamus talking to George, all three frowning. When they spied Ron and Harry's entrance, the three beckoned them over.

"What's up?" Ron asked, sitting beside Dean and leaning into the chair with a relaxing sigh.

"Percy's gone on a rampage!" George sniggered, "Chased after the Troll for coming near two kids and now he's threatened to take it up with the Director. I swear, one of these days Percy's gonna wright _himself_ up for some violation of code or some such. Anyway, the Troll threatened to mash his face in and that's when McGonagall stepped in and sent them their separate ways. Percy has to clean out bedpans and the Troll's off on supply duty."

"So what's the problem?" Ron frowned, seeing the looks of agitation on Dean and Seamus' faces.

"Well, think about it," Dean said, leaning forward, "The Troll's rather put out now isn't he?"

"Yeah..." Ron nodded.

"And now we have a creepy pervert all bothered and upset. Who do you think he's gonna take it out on?"

"With any luck George here. We can finally put that body to use eh?" Ron grinned wickedly. George rolled his eyes and fell back against his chair.

"Don't be jealous because some of us got it, and some of us don't."

"No, I'll just throw you to the Troll." Ron snickered. There wasn't much response to his words however, as Dean and Seamus did not look at all pacified by the joking reassurance and Harry had begun to swish and flick his wand about in controlled movements, muttering silently under his breath.

"Seriously," Ron sighed, "They don't let that git alone for a minute when he's here. We'll be fine."

Dean and Seamus still did not look appeased, if anything they looked more worried.

* * *

><p>The next few weeks slowly began to transition from the death of Summer to the festivities of Halloween. Yellows were soon replaced with golds and reds and oranges before descending from the tree branches to the grounds below. Some mornings Harry and Ron would wake to find the gardeners had raked together large mountains of leaves that were begging to be destroyed as children threw themselves at them. Harry, along with the rest of the pediatrics ward, was quick to answer this call and laughed along with his friends until they were chased inside by the aggravated gardeners.<p>

With the Summer heat cooling to a crisp Autumn breeze, people found themselves outside much more often. Most would wander the leaves carpeted grounds or find one nice spot that wasn't muddy or all that damp and camp there with their friends or a book for the rest of the day. Harry would wander with Ron, sometimes running into Harris as he walked around, sometimes running into some of the other patients. Once in awhile they caught sight of Drake Matthews parading around with his friends-other patients in the pediatrics ward who couldn't be bothered to do more than laud Matthews with adoration and awe.

Once or twice they caught sight of Hermione Granger sitting near the door to outside, a large book in her lap as she tapped it's cover in intervals of three and read as fast as she could. She jumped when their shadows passed over her but once she saw it was merely two more patients she dove back into her book.

"Nutter that one..." Ron muttered as they passed her by, watching them go the entire time.

"She seemed frightened." Harry noted.

"Probably that we'd take her books away." Ron snorted, "Maybe that's why she attacked her mum and got sent here."

"For a book?"

"People have done worse for less."

Suddenly the two were knocked sideways as someone burst past them, clutching a large book to their chest with their head bowed. Harry heard Hermione give a small squeak as she blew past and then she was gone, turning the corner and disappearing just as a number of orderlies past where she had been sitting.

"Suppose she's trying to avoid a session?" Ron asked, Harry merely shrugged.

* * *

><p>Halloween at Horton's was something the staff prided themselves on.<p>

The skeletons from the offices and the infirmary were wheeled to the dining hall and dressed in fake blood and guts or silly outfits, fake cobwebs were strewn over every staircase and every last windowsill. Plastic spiders mysteriously crawled to hide themselves along the walls and on the door frames. Orange cookie tins graced a few Doctor's desks, filled with pumpkin cookies or cinnamon smothered snicker doodles which were handed out after each session. A trick or treating route was mapped out for the younger kids, leading from one office to the next where Doctor's wearing a simple mask or cloak dropped a handful of candy into open and waiting pillow cases.

The diner that night was placed on silver plates for the adults and Halloween themed plastic plates for the children, cherry red "Bloody Punch" in every plastic cup or cheap knock-off goblet. Children ate their dinners with candy as their side, swallowing sweet tarts with spoonfuls of gravy drowned mashed potatoes or tootsie rolls with their flank steak.

Ron speared a large number of string beans with his fork, stuffing them into his mouth alongside several helpings of steak, potatoes, and a number of Twizzlers. How his face hadn't exploded by now was as much a mystery as how he was putting all that food away. It didn't look like the boy could hold much, but he held twice the amount a grown man could. His brother George could keep a fairly steady pace, but stopped at just twice the amount a fairly well grown man could eat. Harry watched both of them as if it were a show before a flurry of movement caught his eye.

It was Doctor Quirrell, running up the length of the dining hall and looking a bit panicked. He stopped before the staff table, leaning close to the Director and whispering in hushed voices. Several of the people dining had stopped to watch, wondering if this was perhaps another Halloween treat or if something truly had gone wrong.

Eventually the Director stood and clapped his hands for attention.

"If everyone could please remain calm," He began in a rather old and cracking voice, "But I'm afraid we'll have to cut the festivities short and return everyone to their rooms." A large amount of groaning could be heard but quickly the people at the tables became compliant and allowed themselves to be escorted back to their wards and individual rooms.

"Wonder what's going on." Ron said as he stood, swallowing his last mouthful.

"Something bad if they have to throw everyone back in their cells." George muttered from behind them, looking around, "Speaking of bad, have either of you seen Troll-face lately? Shouldn't he be out here leading this happy parade along?"

It made sense, creepy orderlies where everyone can see him at all times and all, so where was he? Both Harry and Ron looked around, not seeing him.

"Maybe he's not on duty tonight?" Harry suggested.

"Maybe he finally got sacked." Ron supposed with a small amount of glee.

George shrugged, "Fred and I are gonna head up to bed before he has a chance to jump out and drag some poor fool off into oblivion. Night guys, don't let the Troll bite."

"Night." Ron called after him, frowning as he spotted a large book laying alone in a corner of the hall behind where a suit of armor stood watching over them, "What's this?"

"A book Ron." Harry grinned, ducking as Ron aimed a swing at his head.

"No git, I mean, what's it doing here?"

"Someone obviously left it." Harry said.

Ron sighed, rolling his eyes before they widened and he frowned in worry, "Doesn't this book look a bit familiar though?" He asked, holding it out for Harry to inspect, "Like you've seen it around but not actually used it?"

"Yeah..." Harry nodded.

The two stared at it a moment more before an orderly chased them into moving down the hall again, not letting up till they were at the stairs to the tower where the orderly was quickly distracted by a small fight that had broken out between two other patients.

"It's Hermione's." Harry realized, "Look see, that dent in the corner is from where she hit the door frame once when she ran by."

"Yeah, and the pages are all dog-eared in groups of three!" Ron said, flipping through the bent pages.

"What's her book doing out here?" Harry wondered.

"Does it matter? Let's just leave it in the common room and tell Percy."

"Do you know how long that's gonna take?" Harry asked, "With all the students and prefects moving through the halls they're probably rather crowded. How's he supposed to go searching for her when he can't move freely?"

"So what are you... Oh no way!" Ron snapped, "I don't want to go _near_ that freak!"

"It's probably your fault." Harry said, "We were kinda mean to her earlier."

Ron scowled, remembering how rather cruel he'd been when he'd snapped at Hermione earlier, "So? People are mean to me but I don't throw my things around the hallways as a result."

"You could at least go apologize."

"I will! Tomorrow! When we're allowed to walk around."

"Fine, but I'm going now." Harry said, turning and sauntering off with Hermione's book tucked safely in his arms. Ron watched him go, silently arguing with himself and looking between the stairs to the tower and his friend as he got farther and farther away before his conscience won out and he was chasing after Harry.

Because, let's be honest here, Harry wouldn't make it down the next hallway before he got confused. Ron couldn't let him go off simply because Harry might never manage to wander back.

* * *

><p>When Hermione Granger had been a little girl, she'd discovered she loved learning. Books, shows, stories, she'd gobbled everything up and asked for more. She learned her ABC's before starting kindergarten at the age of five, she already knew how to read before the teachers had attempted to teach her, and she could count higher than anyone in her class. People called her a know-it-all but she didn't see it as a insult, she saw it as a worthy title she'd achieved just by staying up past her bedtime to read an extra chapter in her book.<p>

When Hermione had grown a little older, she'd also discovered she loved groups. Groups of three's to be exact. Everything had to be in a group of three or at least a multiple of three. Three knocks on a door, three items in her lunch box, three notebooks in her desk at school. There was a small set of Butterfly's framed in glass cases, three of them, and they hung together in a row above her bed.

But as she learned to love the number three, she also learned she didn't like any other number that wasn't connected to three. She grew agitated when there were only two butterfly clips in her hair, or had five cookies and not either three or six. She remembered rather painfully the incident she'd caused at her grandmother's house when four magazines had been laid out on the coffee table and she'd tried to burn the extra in the fireplace so there would only be three. She'd nearly set the dog on fire as a result and her father had been considered the least favorite son of the family for a few years.

Following that incident her parents had taken her to a number of men and women with special little brass plates on their doors that read Psychologist or Doctor and they'd talk to Hermione for hours about her home or school life. She'd recount in painstaking detail why the number three was a good number and have to suffer the looks she'd receive as a result. Sometimes she'd overhear these men and women talking to her parents, saying something was bad-Hermione didn't want to listen and so instead concentrate on tapping her fingers three times or trying to touch her shoe to her thigh six times each. She didn't want to hear there was something wrong with her, she didn't want to see looks of concern in her parents eyes or the cold and calculating gaze of a new doctor who would suggest she should take pills that made her feel sick-and she couldn't take three at a time so she refused to take them at all.

Then she'd gotten in trouble at school for disrupting class a number of times. She'd repeat answers an extra two times, some thought she was trying to be funny and others a show off by proving she knew the material more times than she needed to. She'd be caught opening and closing doors repeatedly for no reason, and when she walked she'd count her steps to make sure they ended in a multiple of three.

Deciding they had to nip this growing problem in the bud, her parents set about destroying all the three's in her lives. Out went the carefully constructed drawings of three colored designs or three sided triangles she'd colored carefully to keep the lines straight and unbroken. The pages in her books where three pages at a time had been bent were all straightened and her shoes set in rows of two not three.

Hermione had not liked this at all, had thrown a large tantrum as her shoes were re-organized and her drawings thrown in the bin. She'd screamed her self hoarse as three pillows became two on her bed and the closet began to resemble any other closet, where the clothes all hung together instead of in groups of three pants or three shirts here and another three inches along the rack.

Four magazines were placed on the coffee table and a magnet was removed from the fridge to make twenty-five.

And then her mother had turned to removing all the butterflies from her wall. A gift when Hermione had started primary school and the one object she could say wit confidence she'd taken the best absolute care of through the years she'd had them. Every Saturday she wiped clean their glass and dusted the frames, remeasuring to make sure none had gone crooked or somehow mysteriously moved an inch in the night. The things that hung above her as she slept, providing something beautiful to look at as she fell asleep and woke up every day, the guardians of her dreams and the protectors from her nightmares.

And now her mother sought to remove them from her, take away the last thing that gave her comfort.

Hermione would not have it.

And the next thing she knew, she was sitting in another Doctor's office, her fingernails bandaged where they'd broken from her fingers and lodged themselves... other places...

Doctor McGonagall had smiled kindly down at her, not anything new from what other women had done when Hermione was dragged in to talk to _them_, but somehow when McGonagall did it she didn't feel so awkward, or on the really uncomfortable visits, afraid. Merely a bit embarrassed as the Scottish and aged doctor glossed over the incidents that lead them to meet, neither letting themselves admit to the other that yes, things looked rather bad for the poor ten year old girl.

Hermione Jean Granger was crazy, and the bandages on her mother's face were the proof of that.

Hermione Jean Granger was crazy, and so must be dangerous or creepy or somehow unsettling enough to warrant no one talking to her or interacting with her-even if they were a patient just like her.

Hermione Jean Granger was crazy, and that meant no one would believe her when she told them of the large and ugly orderly that watched her get into a fight with the ginger haired boy who tried to kill himself. No one would listen when she claimed this orderly had grabbed her on her way to the dining hall after hours of crying by herself and her butterfly's, dragged her inside a girl's bathroom stall as she struggled and he began whispering things you don't whisper to a child.

Yes, she was crazy. And crazy people are bad. So Hermione Granger was a bad person and did not deserve help when she needed it most.

The Troll had just grabbed the hem of her shirt when there was a loud bang of the door and they both turned to see none other than Harry Potter and Ron Wesley standing there, looking confused before the ginger's face reddened rather violently and Hermione resumed her struggling.

"Let go!" She hissed, kicking at the orderly's meaty thighs and trying to scratch his arms with nails far to buffed and short to do any real damage. Ron was behind him, hitting and kicking anywhere his eleven year old fists and feet could reach as Harry tried to stab him with his wand.

As the sharp stick of wood entered his side, the Troll cried out and released Hermione's wrists long enough to turn and swat Harry into the frame of a nearby stall. The boy cried out in pain, momentarily dazed as the other two continued to fight, screaming and shouting for anyone to come to their assistance. Then Hermione got loose and she scurried away from the orderly, taking refuge beside Harry as Ron's arms were grabbed from either side and his kicking grew faster and more violent.

Then it happened, the lucky shot that probably meant the difference between a safe or broken neck. Ron was lifted about a foot off the ground and in doing so his foot connected with the Troll's crotch. The orderly gave a strangled gasp before dropping the boy and doubling over in pain.

Ron's system's pumping fast with adrenaline, he scrambled to his feet and was quick to throw a fist to the side of the man's head now that it was within his reach. The man staggered to the side as he howled with pain and was about to turn back to strangle the brat when a force from behind pinned him to the floor.

Rubin Harris growled like a feral animal as he dragged his coworker to his feet, turning him to face a rather cross looking McGonagall flanked by a sour looking Smith. Harris turned to look over the children, thanking the heavens above they at least seemed alright. No one was bleeding or crying...

Yet at least.

"Disappearing during a shift is never a smart idea," McGonagall hissed, her face pale and angry, "But what's even stupider is to let yourself be seen dragging a poor girl off as she's struggling. Did you really think we were that stupid?"

The Troll was still reeling from the crotch shot and so could not answer, so McGonagall ordered him taken to the Director's office in a rather high and sharp voice. The Troll was frog marched out of the bathroom and the ordeal was over.

Allowing the adrenaline to leave the three children's systems and the full realization of what had nearly happened was allowed to consume them. McGonagall turned back in time to see a rather stunned Hermione's face twist sideways and large fat tears prick the corner of her eyes as she wrung the hem of her shirt in her hands. Then, before the doctor could say a thing to the distressed girl she was embraced by the very boys who had been tormenting her hours earlier.

Hermione Granger was crazy, but she wasn't alone. She knew that now.

* * *

><p><em>Dear Journal<em>

_I think even if Harry wasn't crazy he still would have called that Orderly a Troll. He really was._

_Hermione isn't really all that bad too, she wouldn't shut up though after we rescued her-I didn't say anything 'cause I didn't want to be mean after what almost happened. She's really nice to Harry, played along with what he said like I usually do and I didn't even have to tell her!_

_I think this is gonna be a beautiful friendship._

_-Ron Wesley, October 31st, 1991. Thursday, 11:50 pm_


	4. Quirrell After Dark

The orderly known simply to most as The Troll was never seen nor heard from again. Many had their theories of what happened to him, a few had probably even guessed right, but no one outside of the Director, Smith, Harris, and McGonagall really knew that three children had been his undoing.

And those three children had quickly grown to become the closest three in the ward. These days Hermione often found herself wandering the halls with Ron and Harry, a large book in her arms waiting to be read whenever they decided to sit somewhere for a break.

"So Hermione," Ron asked a few days after Halloween night, "What _did_ you get landed in here for anyway?"

They were sitting in one of the large stone corridors of the hospital, nibbling on leftover pumpkin cookies McGonagall had thrown at Hermione on her way out after a session that day. Harry paused in his chewing to look up his new friend, who had frozen in the process of swallowing and was coughing rather harshly to try and remove the food now lodged in her windpipe.

"I beg your pardon?" She croaked, setting the food down on the cover of her thick book as if it were a table.

"Well, what did you do?" Ron asked, "Harry here gave his cousin a pig's tail, George thinks Fred is following him everywhere, what did you do?"

"That's a rather insensitive question you know." Hermione bristled.

"Not if the one asking is also a patient." Ron said, looking smug, "Then it's a normal thing right?"

"Do you ask all your friends why they're crazy?"

"Yes."

"Oh..." Hermione paused, leaning back against the wall, and shutting her eyes, "Well... I guess it would have to do with the fact that I'm crazy right?"

"Yeah..." Ron nodded patiently.

"And therefore need to be locked up where I can't endanger people."

"I guess..."

"Or myself..."

"Yes..."

"And that's why I'm here." She said, straightening the square napkin her cookie rested on so it was parallel to her book.

"Oh come on! We told you why we were here!" Ron groaned.

"You volunteered that information, I didn't _make_ you tell me." Hermione argued.

"Oh come on! We can't keep secrets you know."

"It's not a secret." Hermione blinked, "I just choose not to share it with everyone."

Ron's face grew dark and agitated as Harry snickered, burying his face into his cookie as Ron stood and pointed his finger into Hermione's face.

"Listen here Granger, we're friends now. That means when I say talk, you talk!"

"Is he always so demanding?" Hermione asked Harry, grinning.

"Yep." Harry laughed.

"Come oooooooooooon!" Ron groaned, flopping back to where he was sitting and laying out across the floor.

"Very well, if it will save your pretty little head from exploding," Hermione grinned, "I like the number three a little to much. There. Now you know, now you can stop asking. Isn't it so nice to know someone else's personal information even though they didn't want you to? Almost like identity theft or general thievery. You're a despicable one Ron, you know that?"

Ron frowned at Hermione, wondering if she was crazier than she let on before sighing and turning to roll onto his stomach, "Yeah I know, George reminds me every night and Percy tells me every day."

"How sad for you." Hermione said patronizingly, opening her large book and turning the pages three at a time.

"Speaking of sad, Harry it's Quirrell at three o'clock." Ron said just before the turbaned doctor appeared before the three with a large smile on his face.

"H-h-hello th-there children," He said sweetly, "Would you m-mind if I-I borrowed H-H-Harry? We ha-ha-have an appointment scheduled and I'd rather-er-er we not be l-l-late."

"Well seeing as he doesn't have much choice I guess." Ron frowned as Harry picked himself up from the floor and brushed imaginary dust off his legs. Quirrell smiled and ushered Harry down the hall, allowing him only a moment to glance back at his friends, who waved sadly and sympathetically until he disappeared around the corner.

Quirrell's office was still very much a mess as the last time Harry had been in here. Sitting in the leather easy chair by the window, the only area that seemed clear of paper or yarn or tape for a good foot in radius, Harry watched Quirrell sit at his desk and open a notebook with Harry's name scribbled across a label stuck to the cover.

"Now," Quirrell said as he flipped through the pages, "L-l-last time we were h-h-here Harry, we covered y-y-your home life did we not?" He looked up at Harry, who stared back like an owl, silent and judgmental. Quirrell turned back to his notebook, pulling out a fountain pen and uncapping it.

"From w-w-what I've g-g-gathered," Quirrell continued, "Y-y-your aunt and u-uncle were rather fond of showing f-f-f-f-favoritism t-t-towards your c-cousin were they n-not?"

"I guess." Harry nodded, folding himself into the chair.

"W-w-what w-w-were your p-parents like?" Quirrell asked, "D-do you remember?"

Harry shook his head, "I was a year old remember?"

"Ah, y-yes, that's r-right." Quirrell nodded, "But y-you do think a-about them?"

"Yeah."

Quirrell pulled a sheet of computer paper out of his printer and handed it, and a box of colored pencils, to the boy.

"Draw f-f-f-for me what y-you think about." Quirrell instructed, sitting back in his chair to watch as Harry moved closer to the desk and began to scribble. This was not a foreign exercise to him, he'd drawn his family loads of times; only back then he might have gotten yelled at in front of his class for making up stories or lying, maybe drawn a concerned look from a school counselor or two. His aunt always tore up the ones she found in his school bag or under his mattress. She'd be rather nasty the rest of the day, even going so far as to snap here or there at her precious _Dinky Duddydums_ when he grew more obnoxious than usual.

Harry hadn't been permitted to draw his family for a long time. So at this fresh chance he took his time, going into detail on his mother's hair and his father's glasses-which looked rather similar to his own. His mother's eyes were shaded emerald, and his father's an electric blue. Harry grinned as an hour passed, sitting back and alerting Quirrell that he was finished. The man glanced up from his notes, closing them to open Harry's folder and lean forward to see what the boy had done.

Taking the sheet of paper between two lanky and pale fingers, Quirrell lifted it up to the light and began to look it over. It was a simple drawing, obviously done by the crude hand of an eleven year old, and yet the level of detail suggested dedication or an invested interest in the drawing's subject matter; like the artist was really dedicated to his work. The figure of the boy's "mother" was drawn shakily, with random lines jutting out from her hair and body as is common with an untrained hand, but the level of details crammed into her face and clothes was remarkable. Same went for the "father", with very distinct lines making up his glasses and face. They both smiled up at the viewer, holding either hand of the small boy standing in between them, a drawing not nearly as finely detailed as his parents. Quirrell believed this meant Harry didn't care much for himself in this drawing, it was the parents he was focused on.

"V-v-very nice," Quirrell praised, settling the picture into the boy's folder, "And I b-believe that c-c-concludes our session for today, don't y-you think?"

"I guess." Harry nodded, glad to be able to leave and do what he wished.

"I-I want you to w-work on th-thinking about w-why these two are s-so important to you." Quirrell instructed, "Next w-w-week I want to t-talk about y-your parents a b-bit more in detail."

Harry felt he could already talk about why they were important to him, but he didn't want to be stuck in the stuffy room with Quirrell any longer and so instead nodded and quickly made his way out the door.

As he walked silently back towards the the Pediatric Ward tower, Harry happened to glance up and see Drake Matthews strutting back and forth as he talked at a loud volume and regaled his listeners (a few of his cronies from the Pediatric ward and a couple poor patients trapped in drugged stupors) with some story or another; Harry was sure he heard the phrase "My father" a few times and this triggered a new set of thoughts.

Harry reasoned his own father was nothing like Drake Matthew's father. Drake Matthews may talk his father up a lot, praising his every move and boasting of his intelligence and general importance. Yet Harry had not seen this "wondrous father" once, granted he'd only been at Horton's for about two months, but Ron's family had managed a visit-and they lived quite aways away.

Where did the Matthews family live? Was it closer or farther than where the Wesley's lived? And for that matter, where did the Wesley family live?

Drake paused in his speech as Harry disappeared through an arched doorway, and Harry caught the sound of forced laughter before he turned the corner and left their earshot.

Harry had to wonder, was Mr. Matthews like his son? Ron didn't seem all that much like either of his parents, and Dudley had been exactly like his own father. Was Harry anything like his father? Or his mother? He reckoned he'd managed to see a picture of them once-just once. Yet the memory was so old and from so long ago Harry also had to wonder if he'd dreamt the entire thing.

He'd seen a dusty and rather old framed photograph hidden in a box meant for the attic once of a couple, with black and red hair smiling at the camera. They grinned wide, waving as they were photographed, and looked happier than Harry had ever felt in his life. Pressed close together, Harry found it easy to study them. The way their eyes lit up and the corners crinkled, how wide their grins were and the way the light reflected off the man's glasses from the sun. The woman's hair was long and there must have been a breeze that day because strands had blown into her face, draping across her cheeks and mouth. She didn't seem all that bothered though, as her eyes seemed to center on you, as if asking if you were alright. If perhaps, you were having a good time.

Then the photo had been ripped from his hands by Petunia and he never saw it again.

That memory was old, probably from before Harry had even started primary school. He had to wonder if it was real or he'd dreamt it up. He doubted he dreamt it up, because the cold look his aunt gave him was something no one could dream up. It was to horrible to belong in anything as sweet as a dream.

And that meant the photo was real, meaning the people in the photo were real.

And Harry was sure he knew exactly who they were-his parents. He hadn't seen them once after that but he remembered, with every fiber of his memory he clung to the image as if it were life and death. It was proof that he belonged to someone other than the people he lived with, the people who made him feel worthless and horrible at every chance. At night, when Dudley had been whining to his parents he couldn't sleep and that there were monsters under his bed Harry had been clinging to the picture in his mind, willing it to protect him because no one else would.

And when Harry was being punished under the stairs, he liked to pretend the couple he saw in the picture somehow had fit in there with them. That the cupboard could hold all three of them comfortably and that it was their secret place, where Harry's horrid relatives couldn't reach and he could be alone with his protectors. Nothing bad could happen so long as they were with him.

He needed them, he wanted them. As long as they were with him he knew he'd be safe.

And with this last reminder of them, drawing the two people he knew to be his parents, Harry wanted to see them again.

"Harry!"

Harry was snapped from his thoughts and turned to see Ron and Hermione bustling past a number of patients and orderlies to reach him.

"Harry there you are!" Hermione said breathlessly, "We're sorry, we would have been waiting for you outside Quirrell's office but Doctor McGonagall grabbed Ron before we made it down there and then Doctor Smith grabbed me and by the time we got out you'd gone and-"

"Breathe woman!" Ron cried, interrupting Hermione as she began to babble, "We all get it, don't pass out or pop a lung."

"Sorry." Hermione grinned sheepishly.

Ron then turned to Harry, "So, how was the session?"

Harry shrugged, "I saw my parents."

"What?"

"I drew my parents." Harry said, "He wanted me to draw a picture and it took up most of the time. He said he wants to talk about it the next time I have to go in there."

"Sounds... actually I don't know, how does that sound to you?" Ron asked frowning as he turned to Hermione for further comment, "Seems like it'd be painful but maybe not? Talking always helps right?"

"Not always," Hermione sighed in exasperation as the three began to walk towards the dining hall.

Harry merely shrugged, "There's not much I can talk about right? They were dead before I really knew them."

"Still, you must know something about them right?" Ron asked, "Otherwise you wouldn't be able to draw them."

"That's true," Harry grinned, "But still, how much can we talk about?"

"It'll probably be more of you talking for a few minutes and him analyzing everything you said. George says that's what happens whenever he has to talk. He swears he fell asleep once that quack went on so long." Ron said.

Hermione sighed, "Or maybe there'll be some helpful insight from what he says. He is a doctor."

"Just because you have the name plate and the degree doesn't mean you're any good." Ron said venomously, turning to his dinner.

* * *

><p>It was late. Far to late for anyone to be up.<p>

And yet Harry sat at his desk instead of sleeping, scribbling furiously at the paper he'd carried into his room before lights out. As each drawing was finished it was shoved off to the side to make room for the next picture to be drawn. By the time the sun began to peak out from behind the mountains covered in trees surrounding the hospital there was a decently sized pile covering the desk and spilling over onto the floor.

This would continue into the week, some days it would go all night, others for merely into the earliest wee hours before he collapsed at the desk in exhaustion. Either way he was greeted to a concerned and critical eye by Rubin who came to unlock the door of his room and escort him and the other kids in the ward to breakfast.

* * *

><p>"Very nice Harry." Quirrell said, smiling brightly at the child sitting across from him as he collected another masterpiece-the contents mirroring that of his previous drawing. Harry looked over his job of his mother's hair for the picture, ignoring Quirrell's stammer-less compliment and anything else said to him until the drawing was put away in the folder labeled with his name.<p>

"N-now" Quirrell said, leaning forward on his desk towards Harry, "H-Harry, y-y-you've lived with your aunt and uncle for as long as you can r-r-remember, yes?"

"Yes." Harry said mechanically.

"And they've a-a-a-a-always insisted they w-w-were your r-r-real parents?"

"Yes."

"Odd... isn't it?"

Harry was silent, trying to think of an answer while at the same time get through this session without sparking any form of conversation that would cause him to stay here longer than he needed to.

"Odd, h-how they w-w-would try to r-r-replace themselves in a p-p-place w-w-where they didn't belong. A-a-and you say e-e-e-everyone was in o-on it?"

"Most didn't know... or believe me." Harry said sheepishly.

"W-w-weird." Quirrell smiled, standing up and walking around the room, "I wonder, would there be a reason for that? Why would they care if they were labelled your aunt and uncle or your mother and father? And for that matter... if they didn't like you all that much, as you say, then why would they bother?"

Harry frowned, for the voice he was hearing didn't seem to be the one from a moment ago. Where was the stutter? Where was the high squeaky pitch? Where had the confidence come from?

The look Quirrell was fixing on him was rather calculating. Nothing of the simpering pity his eyes held previously was to be found.

It was like he was a whole other person...

"Harry?" Quirrell asked, "Did you hear me?"

"I... I don't know." Harry said, recoiling into his seat and away from this new version of a doctor he didn't really care for. He was different, and yet familiar in a way that Harry couldn't place but knew he didn't like. Suggestions and warnings sounded in his head, ringing alarm bells that signaled danger for him should this figure come any closer. And that was what he did as Quirrell crossed the room, sat on the edge of his desk with arms crossed, and leaned forward so his face was a foot from Harry's.

"Why. Do. You. Think. They'd. Do. That?" He asked patronizingly.

Harry shrugged, trying to press his head and neck into the back of his chair to gain some distance from this man.

"Well there must be a reason. After all, it wouldn't be for a joke or just to antagonize you, especially if they kept up the lie this long. Think, why would they do that?"

Harry swallowed, wishing to leave but unsure if he could. Would orderlies drag him back here? Would they force him to sit in this chair in an office that had grown much to cold for his liking and answer every insipid question this quack threw at him? Would he be hurt for not answering? That Troll had been pretty nasty, how many other people here with authority over him were like that? Was Quirrell one of them?

"Come on Harry," Quirrell said, "Answer the question. For me?"

"Because... they're the crazy ones?"

Quirrell smirked, "Yes, that must be the reason." He moved away from Harry, turning to return to his seat and relax in it just as there was a quiet and timid knock at the door.

"C-c-come in?" Quirrell called, smiling at Harry as the door opened to reveal Doctor Smith on the other side, his ever-present scowled displayed crisply beneath his oily and slicked back hair.

"I believe Potter is finished with you for today?" He said, referring to a clipboard in the crook of his arm.

Quirrell frowned, checking his watch, "A-ah y-y-yes. I see." He smiled warmly at Harry again, "W-w-w-well I guess we'll have to c-c-c-continue this for a-a-a-a-another time."

"Yeah..." Harry muttered, standing and following Smith out the door. Away from Quirrell.

Or whatever was in the room with him.

Because it certainly wasn't Quirrell. It was to cold and dark, much to confident and assertive to be the Quirrell Ron and he snickered about over dinner. It wasn't the Quirrell George took great pleasure snarling and screaming about as he was dragged to the man's office against his will. It wasn't the Quirrell Hermione weakly tried to defend because, after all, he was a doctor and doctors should be listened to right?

That wasn't Quirrell. That was something else.

And Harry didn't like it.

* * *

><p>"You know, when you said we were gonna sneak out, I figured we'd do something interesting-like investigate the kitchens or sneak into one of the teacher's offices." Ron grumbled as he pressed his back against the cold stone wall. Harry ignored him, leaning heavily against the corner and watching intensely as Dr. Quirrell made his way down the hall, muttering into a tape recorder clutched in his hand.<p>

It had bothered him all day, the images of a more confident Quirrell prodding at him with difficult questions had seemed to twist around his brain, the thought that something was off with the man growing more and more pronounced as the day wore on. It couldn't have been Quirrell, it had to be something else tormenting Harry. Something dark and twisted, something out to hurt others. He could feel the malice the memories emanated, taste the fear whoever that was wanted to cause.

He hadn't thought much of anything else, and had not bothered to consider the consequences of his actions as he got Ron to unlock both their doors so they could sneak out after lights out to investigate.

"This is important." Harry said, dashing down the hall as quickly as possible, careful to dodge any oncoming orderlies.

"How?" Ron snapped, quick to follow after.

"There's something wrong with him."

"Quirrell?"

"Yeah, when I was with him today, he just... didn't seem right."

"Didn't... seem... right." Ron repeated slowly as they came to rest beside a window while Quirrell paused to lean against a pillar as he spoke into the tape recorder.

"Yeah, like he wasn't himself. He was all... dark." Harry said, trying to find the right words to explain, "He seemed meaner too, like he was out to make things worse for people."

"People in general?" Ron asked, "Or people as in you?"

"I dunno... people." Harry shrugged, turning back to watch. From far away he couldn't hear a word the man said but his jaw jerked up and down so erratically you could tell he was stuttering quite badly.

"Harry... are you sure?" Ron asked, biting his lip. That look in his friend's eyes, it didn't sit right with the ginger.

"Positive." Harry said, dashing forward to follow as Quirrell began to move.

Ron had not missed the piles of drawings littering Harry's desk and floor, he'd not missed how withdrawn he'd been lately. And now Quirrell was a danger to people? He followed as close as he could, legs burning as he kept up with his friend. But was this a wild goose chase? Was Harry wrong? Was it just in his head and Ron had been a fool to let him continue?

There was a dull twisting in his gut that tried to tell him the answer but Ron didn't want to listen, didn't want to think he'd done wrong. Instead he followed after, letting Harry lead him further and further from the pediatric ward's tower. They'd be fine as long as they used common sense, he just had to watch out for Harry.

They'd be fine.

A loud crash sounded down the hall they'd been racing along, causing Harry and Ron to pause as they watched Quirrell get tackled by a large black shadow. As the shock wore off, they began to inch forward, hiding behind a decorative statue bolted to the floor of the hall. The voices were low and slightly muffled, but Ron craned his ears to hear anyway.

"Ah, S-s-s-Smith."

"Evening Doctor." The low drawl of Dr. Smith sounded, sending a chill down Ron's spine.

"W-w-w-what brings y-y-y-y-y-you here?" Quirrell's voice sounded uncomfortable, as if being between Smith and a stone wall wasn't all that nice.

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"J-j-just out for a b-b-b-b-bit of a m-m-m-m-m-m-m-midnight stroll, c-c-c-c-clears the head y-y-you know?"

"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" Smith said and there was a grunt as the obscured figures moved, "Although what thoughts would those be? Hopefully about your patients."

"Always my patients." Ron felt Harry stiffen beside him, but as he listened there didn't seem to anything out of place.

"There it is." Harry whispered, but again Ron couldn't sense anything.

"Glad to hear." Smith said, voice rising in volume by the merest fraction, his body moving away from Quirrell's as if he were confronted by something disgusting, "Just know we at Hortons take great pride in the care of our patients. I'd hate for that idea to become... tarnished in anyway."

"W-w-w-w-w-what could you b-b-b-b-b-be implying?"

"Nothing, just remember the care of the patient is the most important thing-what comes as a side result is to be treated as that: only a side result. I do hope you remember this while planning that little book of yours."

"A s-s-s-s-s-study into the h-h-h-human m-m-m-mind is as important as a patient if i-i-i-i-it helps shed s-s-s-s-some light on w-w-w-w-whatever we're up a-a-a-a-a-against."

"Oh yes, believe me I do agree." Doctor Smith said, "Have a good night Quirrell, do try to get some sleep." And with that the large and dominating shadowed figure of Smith slipped away, back into the black shadows of the hall as if he'd never been there. Quirrell gave a huff as he smoothed the front of his jacket and continued walking.

"Quirrell's writing a book?" Ron frowned, "I wonder what about."

The two stood there in the hall a few more minutes before a door opened somewhere nearby and startled them both into activity.

"Look, we better get back. They'll do a security check soon and they'll see we're missing." Ron said, pulling Harry by the arm back towards the tower, "And it took ages to find good hairpins, I don't want to lose them."

Harry didn't say much, and Ron had to wonder if he'd merely retreated into his head as he sometimes did or if there was something at work up there.

* * *

><p>It was a wonder he wasn't sick of drawing yet.<p>

About three packs of printer paper had been spent, two boxes of color pencils used, and hours of time he should have spent sleeping had all combined in a large gallery of images that mainly depicted one dark haired man with wild locks accompanied by a ginger woman with bright green eyes. They ranged from standing there in shakily drawn poses against a white backdrop to being outside in the sun or inside a living room mirror that of the one at the Dursley's. The pictures lay cluttered across the desk and pooling around the desk's feet on the floor.

The moonlight streamed through the window and across the eleven year old, lighting his way as he colored in his mother's hair and shaded his father's vest. The scratching of the pencil against the paper was deafening to Harry, filling his ears with a scratchy sounding plea to continue, to let his eyes see what he'd only even been able to imagine. It was nice to have something resembling a memory he was only fifty percent sure was right. Because with each picture he drew, it seemed all the more correct, all the more possible that his parent were there with him and loved him. That they were the ones who gave him life even if they left him with horrible people like the Dursleys.

He could forgive them, he really could. Something obviously happened to take them away, but at least they'd been there right? He could forgive them for going away, because he wasn't with the Dursley's anymore, he was somewhere far better.

Behind him, the door's locked clicked open and slowly a tall figure seemed to glide inside. From the hall, McGonagall, Quirrell, and Rubin watched as Smith scowled on in boredom. The man entering the room turned, smiled kindly at the medical professionals, and closed the door as softly as he could. Turning back around, his blue eyed gaze locked onto the boy as he scribbled uninterrupted.

"Evening Harry." The man said, voice aged and cracking despite it's softness.

The boy turned in his chair, startled.

The man before him, tall and old, smiled. His eyes crinkled in the corners behind half-moon spectacles and sparkled with a youth the rest of him did not possess. He strode forward, a long white beard hanging from his face and aged white hair hanging from his head, reaching his shoulders and resting against a maroon vest.

"Well, aren't you going to say good evening back?" He asked, standing beside Harry's bed.

"E-evening." Harry muttered, grip tightening on the back his chair. Who was this man? Why was he here?

The man smiled again and gestured to the corner of the bed, "May I sit?"

Harry nodded dumbly, unsure of what else to do. He did not notice how McGonagall had to pull Rubin away from the window of his door, only how the man sat with extreme care, like the bed was the most fragile thing in the world.

"I'm sorry for asking, sir," Harry said, gaze falling to his floor, "But... who are you?"

"Ah, where are my manners?" The man laughed, extending an aged hand towards the boy, "My name is Albert Dunford, and I run Horton's, or as I've been told as you call it, Hogwarts."

Tentatively, Harry reached out to shake the old man's hand, finding it warm and inviting. Albert Dunford smiled, withdrawing his arm as Harry released it and settled himself more comfortably into his seat on the bed, "Nice to meet you Professor Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore is it? I must say that's much nicer than Dunford. Thank you Harry."

Harry nodded, mumbling a "Sir."

"Harry, I understand you're having a spot of trouble sleeping?" Dunford began, looking over the papers scattered across the floor.

"Not really," Harry said, feeling guilty, "I just have more important things to do."

"Do you now?" Dunford said, reaching down and grabbing a handful of drawings, "I see, your art is a rather important matter isn't it? As it should be for most people."

"Well, it's more the people in the art actually." Harry admitted, looking down.

Dunford studied the pictures for a moment or two before smiling, "I see, you're family correct? I hope you don't mind but I did look over your file some."

"Not at all." Harry said quickly, "I don't mind."

Dunford smiled, "Now, Harry it seems you've spent quite a lot of time working on these pictures."

Harry swallowed and nodded, not lifting his gaze from the floor.

"Well, did you plan to continue drawing them?"

Not sure how to answer, if maybe there was an incorrect answer, Harry shrugged.

"Harry do you see yourself doing anything in particular in the future?" Dunford asked, surprising the boy and causing him to look up at the old doctor in confusion, "What I mean is, do you have plans for when you grow older? Places to see, people to meet?"

"Not... really." Harry said.

"I didn't either when I was your age." Dunford smiled, "But then again, I wasn't where you were. I had the things I wanted then, and I didn't see much reason to think about anything other than what I wanted for breakfast."

Harry nodded, wondering where this was going.

"Well, as you can probably tell, I grew up. Things changed of course and now I am a completely different person from who I once was." Dunford said, "And that only came to be because I ended up needing and wanting things I had to work for; I lived my life."

"Many men and women, Harry, end up remaining stationary when they fix on only one thing and one thing only. They forget there is more out there waiting for them and that it's only a matter of time before what they want is merely impossible to obtain even by the most desperate of means. They forget to live, and therefore become trapped in their own fantasies. Many, as I bet you knew, end up here, locked away where they can be alone with their dreams and no one can bother them for it. But I ask you, how many are truly happy that way?"

"Not many, I'd expect." Harry answered.

"Correct, because they are locked in here distracted and labeled deranged, and only proceed to grow worse when those who can refuse to see their problems and work to move past them. You, dear boy, wish to see your parents but that is not possible for hopefully a long time. I wish for the perfect pair of woolen socks but that is quite a task and though I enjoy returning to it, I still make sure to attend my board meetings and visit my patients as I should do."

Harry snickered, and a look of triumph seemed to ghost over Dr. Dunford's face.

"Do you understand what I am trying to say though?" He asked, "Please Harry, for them at the very least, remember your parents as fond as you wish, but don't forget to live while you're at it. They will always be with you, in mind and spirit, but they would not be pleased to see you come to a stand still when there are so many things you could move towards." Harry nodded slowly, and Dr. Dunford smiled, reaching out to hand the drawings to the boy, "It does not do to dwell to much on what you don't have Harry. Remember that."

The old man stood, stretching his back before extending his hand once again to the boy, "It was nice talking to you my boy, and I hope we see each other again under lighter circumstances."

Not sure of what else to do, Harry smiled and shook Dr. Dunford's hand.

* * *

><p><strong><em>From the desk of:<em>**_ Albert Dunford_

**_Subject: _**_Harry Dursley, Dr. Quirrell_

_**Notes: **Harry Dursley (referring to himself as 'Potter') seems to be a rather sweet boy. From what I understand he lives rather deeply inside his own head, which isn't a problem in my opinion, in fact more of us should probably do that, but it seems even he can be affected by things._

_I must ask Dr. Quirrell what the point was of drawing the boy's imagined parents, as this seems to have been a trigger for the boy. While I'm sure it was an unforeseen accident it couples to closely with a few of the other patient's agitations towards him._

_~Keep an eye on Harry, there's something worth observing about him, I can tell._


End file.
